The Woman Upstairs
by socks-lost
Summary: Over and done story of their first meeting. In second POV from Maura's perspective. After Hoyt, Maura contemplates about the legend that is Jane Rizzoli. One-shot.


**A/N: **I don't know where this came from and I know I've written like a thousand (okay two) stories of their first meeting before but I had this in my head and it wouldn't go away. In my first draft I had the hooker scene there but it didn't work so I disregarded it.

**Disclaimer: **Don't own the characters. Not making money. ETC.

* * *

The woman upstairs scares you. You've never met her and she isn't actually upstairs but the ghost of her personality hangs everywhere, tainting the building in accomplishments and war stories. She's not there but it feels like she is. It's one of the many reasons she scares you. A woman with a persona so large it's as if she's somewhere she isn't is a person that deserves to be feared.

The only reason you know about the woman is because people talk, cops especially talk. That little revelation was a shock to you at first. You always thought they were a silent, brooding bunch but that guess quickly changed once you became the Chief Medical Examiner. You learn your lesson on why you don't guess or theorize or make assumptions of any kind.

Cops talk. They talk about each other, they talk about funny situations, and you. They talk about you, not even discretely at times either. They mock you. They stare at your attire. They call you names. You don't understand the detectives that work with you and they don't understand you. But it is the talking cops that let you know who the woman upstairs is.

They talk of her sometimes but mostly it's the nonverbal way in which they speak of her that has you fascinated. When the initial incident was constantly on TV they stared at the screen unable to look away with a hand covering a mouth or a slowly shaking head. It's in the way they stare reverently at her empty desk, how they resolutely leave it just as it is because she will be back. It is an undisputed fact that she will be back. That is actually why you're thinking of her right now. At the crime scene earlier you overheard a detective say she's coming back. You don't know when or in what form, but she's coming back within the week. You are both systematically terrified and exhilarated. You have no idea why this woman whom you've never met intrigues you so. But every time you overhear a story about the woman upstairs you catch yourself hanging onto every word.

The woman upstairs is a tall tale.

She's the youngest person ever to be promoted to the rank of detective. She is smart and brave and willing to do just about anything to solve a case. She is made of sterner stuff than you are. (Even though you know that technically you are both made out of the same bones and ligaments but it's the other element, her mind, that is tougher than you.) You hear tales of unflinching heroics, stories of the decorations and commendations that follow her name. You hear how she can crack an interrogation with just one look. You laugh to yourself thinking maybe that's one of the fables; surely no one can do that. Even the best interrogators need more than a few words and a mere look to make a hardened murderer cave.

But the other stories, you believe.

You believe this woman tackled a two hundred pound man with a dislocated shoulder once. You believe she broke a chair over a meth crazed gangbanger. You would probably believe it if someone told you she had walked through fire without blinking, not even bothering with un-holstering her weapon only to come back with her man in cuffs. In your head the woman upstairs is invincible. You have to remind yourself that she's not. That she is on a medical leave of absence so therefore even if invincibility was a human concept she could not have it.

By midday you've completed the autopsy for the case and now you just keep organizing things. You've been the Chief for a few months but your morgue is still not yours, it is still not set up how you like it. It is while you're organizing that you see her for the first time.

You hear someone enter the morgue. You turn and right away you know it's her, the legend, the woman upstairs. She's not looking at you but around you. You take a moment to survey this woman. She is standing almost defiantly with her shoulders back and head up. Nothing about her screams that she's been through a traumatic situation or, as it were, multiple traumatic situations. Nothing even whispers it. Her mere presence seems to stir something within you. Everything about her defies all the things you know about people.

Her shoulders are set and she is tall. The beauty hidden in her face though, is something you don't expect. The hardness in her set jaw, the daring look in her dark, dark eyes is almost overshadowed by high cheek bones and immaculate eyebrows.

You go back to her eyes for a moment.

They are dark and haunted and daring. They dare you to speak, to ask all the questions that are at the tip of your tongue, they dare you to look away (and she's not even looking at you but over your head.) There is a look deep seated in her eyes underneath all of those things that clearly says 'you have no idea what I can take.' They tell you that the woman behind the legend is true. They tell you she's the one that gets things done. You think back to the story of the 'one look – one confession.' You start to believe that story too because you know if that woman asked you a question and fixed those dark, dark eyes on you, you would be forced to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth (even if you can't lie.)

She scares you. Now you've seen her and now she's soon-to-be upstairs and she still scares you. Legends become legends for a reason.

The woman finally looks at you. She takes a step and extends her hand. You don't know what to do but she's giving you that hard look, the one you're already afraid of. You don't want to be rude, you don't want to anger her, but all your scientific knowledge is saying 'No.' Because you see the black nylon glove on the hand in front of you, you see how the fingers aren't fully extended, and you see how unnaturally stiff the hand is so you know her entire forearm is clenched in a flex. You wonder how much pain she is in. You look to her face to see but there are no signs. Your eyes lock and now you're stuck.

Gently – as gently as possible – you grip her hand. The strength that fires back at you almost knocks you off your feet. It's not the firmest handshake you've ever had but it's definitely not the weakest. It impresses you and scares you. She shakes your hand and there are a thousand thoughts running through your head. You want a full medical report on this woman just so you can stare in awe at what human beings can overcome, what they are capable of. And then her voice stops all of that at once. "Jane Rizzoli, homicide detective." Her shoulders rise a little, she stands a little taller at the title. "I look forward to working with you Dr. Isles." She nods her head once and let's go of your hand. She leaves the room with the air and confidence of someone that is used to being in charge.

The next day she comes down to the morgue and stands a few feet away watching as you do an autopsy. It's a new case. Detective Crowe is the lead investigator. She says nothing but her eyes are locked on your scalpel taking in every single move you make with the medical instrument and then you know why she's there. You do the autopsy as if she isn't there, you don't spare her a second glance. This game goes on for weeks. You end up putting a chair where she usually stands. The day after the nylon gloves come off her hands you put a nice neutral green stress ball on the chair. You catch her out of the corner of your eye giving it an experimental squeeze. The next day you find an apple on your desk. Even though you've never actually spoken directly to her you consider her a friend, an ally at the least. That is more than you have had in the last five years of your life.

Yet, she still scares you.

You play this game for six weeks. She sits closer, sometimes even on an empty autopsy table. Now she watches more than just your hands. Her eyes take in everything, they look at the body, they look at the clothes, and they squint at things as you poke and prod and speak into your recorder. On the Monday of the seventh week, you don't have a body, but you hear the familiar clomping of her boots on the tile. She knocks on your door and it's then that you notice the gun on the left side of her hip. "Lunch?" It's one monosyllabic word but you can tell it's hard for her. It's hard for you too. You feel mildly, unreasonably betrayed by the question, that she broke the rules. You find yourself with an excuse behind your teeth, but instead you stand shedding the white lab coat to replace it with your blazer.

You end up at a small café within walking distance of the police department. Once you're seated the silence between you isn't awkward or filled with nervous twitches or tension, it just is. You like it. It's easier like this where you can't speak to ruin the pseudo relationship with the only person that is nice to you at BPD headquarters. But then she goes and breaks it again. "The next case we get is going to be mine." Nervous twitches start as soon as the silence is broken. She doesn't look at you as she speaks, instead she swipes her index finger against her glass wiping at the condensation running off of it. She bites her bottom lip. There are so many questions you want to ask but before you can wrap your mind around any of them she continues. "Just wanted to warn you," She shrugs. "Now, I'll be bugging you about my cases instead of being quiet when I go down to the morgue." She gives an airy laugh, one 'heh' and shakes her head.

"Are you nervous?" The question slips out of your mouth before you can think about the repercussions.

You see her shoulders fall slightly. She gives you a knowing look, one that isn't so scary. She nods. "Yeah, I am."

* * *

**A/N: **And thus a beautiful friendship was made.

Had fun writing, hope you enjoyed reading!


End file.
